


in flight

by thethirdheart



Series: hinayachi adventures [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Brazil, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Drunk Hinata Shouyou, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hinata's Brazilian friends are featured, Mentioned Kageyama Tobio, Mentioned Tsukishima Kei, Mentioned Yamaguchi Tadashi, Mentions of alcohol, No Angst, POV Hinata Shouyou, Pro Volleyball Player Hinata Shouyou, Romance, Slight Peer Pressure, Vacation, Yachi Hitoka is a Good Girlfriend, Yachi Hitoka-centric, mostly because of Heitor's influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethirdheart/pseuds/thethirdheart
Summary: So maybe she’s a little offended and wants to prove him wrong. Maybe she knows in the back of her mind that she has more than enough vacation days to burn through. Maybe she’s wanted to experience his lifestyle in Brazil since the first day she saw him, a gleaming and tanned glory standing on the court.Maybe the cataclysmic mixture of all the above is what enables her to accept."Okay. I'll go to Brazil with you in November." She declares.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Yachi Hitoka
Series: hinayachi adventures [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909576
Comments: 31
Kudos: 164





	in flight

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part 2 of my hinayachi insanity. You don't need to read Part 1 to understand what goes on here, though this does reference particular scenes from there. I think the context is quite clear regardless.
> 
> Before reading, please make sure the Creator's Style is turned on so that you can see the subheader titles. If not, I've bolded and bracketed them just in case.

## Hitoka

* * *

**(The Brazil moment)**

A year after the 2021 Olympics, Hinata receives the fateful email during dinner.

Hitoka is spooning cream stew in her mouth, while Hinata’s bowl is empty after three servings. He’s scrolling through his notifications, fingers swiping left to right, presumably removing the Twitter and Instagram mentions.

His contract with MSBY is ending in a few weeks. He doesn’t bring up renewal terms. Instead, he’s browsing through foreign team openings. In the last little while, he’s been focusing on the Brazilian league.

Hitoka muses about the inevitability of a long-distance relationship. Three years ago, she might have stressed out already, spent nights crying into her pillow because her boyfriend going overseas is absolutely non-negotiable.

For three peaceful years, Hinata remained with MSBY. The farthest training camp he’s attended is in Kyushu Prefecture. There are no time differences between prefectures. Plus, she was comforted by the knowledge that he’ll return in a week’s time.

They take three years to figure out their living arrangements and schedules. Hitoka works full-time and Hinata trains full-time. In fact, they’re frequently the diligent types to go overtime. The mutual verdict for this problem is that they can start the day earlier, so that they can leave their respective workplaces on time.

After that, Hinata picks a bone with Hitoka’s questionable eating habits. He starts nagging her to eat real food instead of convenience store food. She almost wins this argument, claiming that cooking can be twice as expensive as takeout food. Hinata flicks an UNO reverse on her, explaining that he can afford groceries because he’s a professional and sponsored athlete now.

Hitoka gradually adjusts to the idea of accepting free things from Hinata, though her conscience never allows her to remain complicit. She does her best to reciprocate. Her annual salary is nothing to scoff at, with its upward trajectory assured after two promotions. But Hinata does have extra lying around that he generously contributes towards her personal expenses.

She eases up on her budget restrictions, not without plenty of cajoling from Hinata’s end.

And now, over dinner on a hot and dry August evening, Hinata’s smile is a hot and dry thing on its own. He only ever smiles like that around volleyball.

Hitoka is not psychic, but her paranoid senses register a shift in the atmosphere. A large-scale change in the making. The library book on Brazilian volleyball teams sits on the corner of the dining table, silently mocking her.

As always, she reaches an answer moments before he drops the news on her.

He slides the phone towards her, the email displayed on the screen.

She peers down at the curly accents above the letters. Out of the whole email, she only recognizes the team logo.

“They agreed to let me join Sao Paulo! Isn’t that great?” Hinata summarizes the illegible email contents with a flourish. In doing so, he also confirms her worst fears.

Hitoka’s vision momentarily turns white. In her shock, a cauliflower morsel travels down the wrong pipe. Cauliflower is not supposed to go down the windpipe. She hacks and coughs, tears stinging from the scratchy and invasive vegetable.

A glass of water appears in her blurred vision. She gulps down every drop, her body tensed until the pain subsides.

Hitoka dabs a paper towel around her eyes, dignity in tatters. To say that she overreacted is an underestimation. She used to think that death by inane occurrences like choking was a sad ending to life. And she almost died from such a pathetic and sad accident.

“That’s wonderful news, Hinata!” Hitoka blurts out in a cauliflower-weakened hoarse voice.

_I should be happy for him. He got what he wants most; and the Brazilian volleyball league is certainly nothing to scoff at. He’ll get to level up higher._

Her internal monologue isn’t remotely convincing to Hitoka. If Hinata sees through her facade, he picks up the conversation without mentioning it.

After fielding concerned questions about her throat from Hinata, she decides that she would much rather know in advance the specifics of this new transition. Otherwise, the next few days will be spent wallowing in stress and misery.

Her misery in turn also stresses Hinata out, and Hitoka never wants that. Hinata taught her to confront her fears head-on. The aftermath is usually tamer than her brain’s frenetic disillusions.

“When are you leaving then?” She asks.

Hinata retrieves his phone, squinting at the text. “In about three months from today…”

He trails off, eyebrows raising as he scrolls further down.

Hitoka refuses to think pessimistic thoughts. They have a stubborn tendency to crop out her present awareness regardless. _Is he leaving earlier than the three months’ time? Are they forcing him to go to Rio and sign the contract in person? What if it’s a scam email?_

“They’re inviting me to go to Rio in mid-November, to meet the team and go over legal stuff,” Hinata waves a hand vaguely at aforementioned ‘legal stuff’. It’s an established fact that he dislikes paperwork. “But since the season already started, they won’t officially accept new members until next year.”

Okay. Next year. Hitoka relaxes.

“The contract is for two years. We’ll be fine.” Hinata says with finality.

 _We’ll be fine_ can allude to anything. But Hitoka perceives the unspoken promise in those words. This time, she’ll believe that they will, indeed, be fine. There’s no guarantee that she won’t freak out at some point in the two-year period, though.

Hinata looks up at her. An idea seems to be forming in his head.

When Hinata sparks ideas that revolve around her, Hitoka is normally torn between full acceptance and lip-quivering refusal. But because it’s Hinata, his motivations stem from a good place. Ultimately, he wants the best for her, even if they may not agree on his methods to achieve that.

He doesn’t speak, but his eyes twinkle for a brief second. Then the light dims, replaced by resignation.

“Yachi.”

Hitoka sits a little straighter in her seat. She decides against taking another spoonful of her partially finished stew, so that whatever he says next can’t make her choke again. “Yes.”

Hinata sets his phone down on the table. He interlocks his fingers, chin bracing atop knuckles. “Do you want to come with me to Brazil? Not for the whole time!” He quickly clarifies. “Just for the two weeks in mid-November, while I deal with the legalities and meet-ups on the side. A vacation for us both.”

The pep in his tone dwindles towards the end of his sentence. She’s not dumb; she knows that he’s expecting her to object.

Although the assumption smarts a little, Hitoka can’t quite fault him. She doesn’t have the best track record for _going with the flow_.

So maybe she’s a little offended and wants to prove him wrong. Maybe she knows in the back of her mind that she has more than enough vacation days to burn through. Maybe she’s wanted to experience his lifestyle in Brazil since the day she saw him in the Jackals vs Adlers match, a gleaming and tanned glory standing on the court.

Maybe the cataclysmic mixture of all the above is what enables her to accept.

"Okay. I'll go to Brazil with you in November." She declares.

Hinata's mouth falls open in gobsmacked astonishment.

For once, Hitoka doesn’t allow the negative thoughts to swarm her head. She stifles the impulse to apologize.

This must be one of the few times she's managed to take him by surprise. Hitoka finds that realization strangely satisfying.

Ultimately, Hinata recovers quicker than she would have liked. His reaction time is impeccable, as always. However, the concerned look on his face is not very promising.

"Yachi, please don't feel like you have to force yourself to do this."

He's not outright telling her not to go, because Hinata is not that kind of person. He's asking her to reconsider even though the sentiment is unnecessary; Hitoka has made up her mind the second she said so. She may bend easily, but she doesn't break a promise once she's verbalized it.

Her brain kicks into planning mode and she's already mapping out the dates and mentally drafting an email to HR for time off. All her overtime has to count for something. For the rare opportunity to visit Brazil. See the place where Hinata went from 100 (because to Hitoka, Hinata has always been 100% talented) to 10000.

She squares her shoulders and repeats her declaration, though she tacks on, “As long as my company is not a hindrance.”

Hinata’s russet eyelashes flutter thrice in rapid succession. “You will _never_ be a hindrance.”

Then he pulls Hitoka into a tight hug and doesn't let go for a long while.

Hitoka honestly doesn't know what to think: that the hug is meant as _this is consolation for the trying times ahead_ , or _I'm so happy you're willing to fly to the other side of the world by my side_.

Likely both.

* * *

She's never travelled internationally before. Vacation days are a foreign concept to her workaholic mother, and jetting off to visit an exotic destination is virtually a pipedream. Though her mother travels often, most of her trips are domestic and for work purposes. Hitoka herself has embarked on a grand total of six domestic trips.

Despite her inexperience, paperwork is Hitoka’s strong suit. She breezes by passport and Visa applications, much to Hinata's amazement. Flight tickets are booked, and all that's left is to pack. Hinata is most helpful in this regard, telling her about the weather and climate, even educating her a bit on Brazilian culture.

He teaches her Portuguese phrases that contort her tongue in weird ways. She has a hard time rolling her R’s, though Hinata assures her that as long as he's around, she won't have to struggle like he did in the beginning.

On the days leading up to their departure, Hinata gets restless. He doesn't express his feelings verbally, but the anticipation rolls off him in waves.

On D-day, Hitoka takes the train to Haneda Airport for the first time in her life. Hinata guides her through check-in and customs, always keeping a steady hand either on her back or around her shoulder, a tether among the controlled chaos.

Without him, Hitoka would probably have gone through five mental breakdowns before reaching the boarding gate.

“You’re taking all this incredibly well.” Hinata remarks as they line up at the gate, boarding passes poking out of their shiny passports. Hitoka is smoothing down a dog-eared corner to no avail.

Hitoka shakes her head vehemently. “It’s all thanks to you.” Never mind that most people her age are accustomed to flying in and out. This is not supposed to be a big deal.

Hinata laughs. “Give yourself more credit, Yachi.”

The take-off is rougher than expected. Hitoka focuses on Hinata’s ever-present warm hand, eyes clenched shut and taking deep breaths. The rattling and dull engine roar are unnerving, but once the plane is in the air, she pulls out her headphones and turns on noise-cancelling.

She spends both flights holding onto his hand. Hinata doesn’t complain once during the forty-three-hour travel.

Finally, they stagger out of the Rio airport, looking worse for wear. Hinata looks more awake than her, because he actually got to sleep on the flight.

As they wait for Pedro’s car at the arrival hall, Hitoka struggles to keep her eyes open. Her first impression of Rio is the diverse skin and hair colours; quite different from Japan’s homogeneous Asian population. The air is warmer even though they’re standing under an air conditioner. She feels thirsty but doesn’t have the energy to locate a vending machine.

“Let’s sit here, Yachi,” Hinata guides her to an empty bench. “Pedro’ll be here any minute now. Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head. The bread on the plane from three hours ago still sits in her stomach like solid brick.

Hinata squeezes her shoulder. “As soon as we reach the Airbnb, you can head straight for bed.”

Hitoka wants badly to respond in words. But she nods her head in acquiescence.

Hinata removes his snapback from the backpack. He smooths his fringe back and puts the snapback on, pulling it down over his temples.

She contemplates his forehead. Three years later and the sight of it never fails to arouse butterflies. Hinata must be aware of its effect on her.

Hitoka would say that her first impression of Pedro is a soft spoken, lanky college student. She nearly dropped her bag when he greeted them in perfect Japanese. He offers to take her backpack, and with Hinata pulling their shared suitcase, Hitoka ends up carrying only her small personal handbag.

Hinata told her before that Pedro’s personality is like Kenma’s, and Hitoka can see the similarities. Upon seeing Pedro, Hinata envelops the young man in a tight hug. As they walk to the parking lot, Hinata is the one who keeps the conversation alive. He pelts Pedro with questions, all in a mix of Japanese and Portuguese. Pedro answers mostly in Japanese (likely for Hitoka’s benefit), though he replaces certain phrases with Portuguese when he’s unsure.

Hitoka remembers thanking Pedro for driving them to the apartment. The rest is purely muscle memory; getting to the shower, drenching herself in lukewarm water, and halfheartedly brushing her teeth before she collapses into the bed.

* * *

**(Grapefruit Smoothie)**

Day 3 in Brazil is different from Days 1 and 2. For starters, Hitoka manages to drag herself out of her self-imposed house arrest due to jet lag. Hinata bounced back on Day 2, and within the time Hitoka spent in bed, he mostly caught up with his friends and former teammates.

He tells her that the Sao Paulo admin team had met up with him. Contract terms have been finalized.

Hitoka tries not to dwell on that news. Instead, she forces her weary body to cooperate at 9am on Day 3.

Seeing as she’s awake and clearly in need of fresh air, Hinata takes her to the local beach. He regales her with stories about the beach volleyball matches and regulars (both recreational and semi-pros) that he pairs with for the occasional post-dinner match. Losers compensate winners for drinks, though Hinata almost always requests for supper.

Food, he says, helps build muscle.

Hitoka wholeheartedly agrees. His red v-neck shirt and white shorts do little to conceal his… build.

In Tokyo at this time, Hitoka would be clad in her standard business casual attire, which consists of a white blouse, a pencil skirt, skin-coloured stockings, and black flats. If the weather was warm enough, she would trade her long-sleeved blouse for a short-sleeved version. If she felt particularly extra, no stockings.

In Rio, she opts for a comfy and flowy pink dress that has mini strawberry prints all over the fabric. The dress covers until her mid-thighs, and Hitoka’s prior reservations about showing skin are decimated as more people show up at the beach.

(Hitoka doesn’t own bikinis. Or bandeaus. Or ripped denim shorts. Her sense of confidence is a sliver of the skimpy fabric that these tourists and locals wear.)

She minds her own business, making herself comfortable on the beach blanket. Hinata is off to fetch drinks from Nice.

There is absolutely no reason for strangers to approach her. She’s the most uninteresting person on the beach; but maybe people here pick up on vulnerable prey easily.

That’s why Hitoka, in her non-Brazilian-conventional attire and tiny stature among giants, attracts attention. The thought of being a target is excruciating—she’s _not_ Hinata—since all she wants is to remain inconspicuous. She's used to being on the sidelines.

That is, until a tall, dark-skinned man with a large afro walks up to her.

The afro guy says something loudly in Portuguese, expression open and exuberant.

Hitoka surmises that he isn't threatening, at least not confrontationally. But coming from Japan where approaching strangers causes the highest social discomfort imaginable, plus her inability to recall where Hinata wandered off, all but eliminate the English words she knows. Her mind is a blank slate.

Then the afro guy waves over another tall, tanned man with bleached blond hair, while gesturing towards her in large, exaggerated motions. They stand about three feet away from her, but their loud voices envelop and trap her in place.

Her manners prevent her from escaping the situation, and yet her instincts scream at her to flee. But she can't flee when she’s in unfamiliar territory.

The beach is filled with people, all communicating in a language she can't understand. Even the women here are tall and intimidating; Hitoka feels self conscious in her conservative blue summer dress in the presence of bronze arms, taut abdomens, and mile long legs.

Hitoka trembles like a leaf. The Brazilians are still talking to each other, maybe she can slip away—

“So you've met Gabriel and Gino already, Yachi!" The Japanese words startle Hitoka so much that she yelps. But nobody else here is Asian and nobody else speaks Japanese so it can only be Hinata.

She spins around in a rush, temporarily forgetting about the two men and drinks in the sight of Hinata like someone who discovered an oasis. He is smiling from ear to ear, holding two glasses in his hands. The drinks are pink in colour with red umbrellas on top.

“I got you a grapefruit smoothie! It’s Nice’s signature blend.”

She reaches out for the glass, only for Hinata to retract it. His head dips swiftly into hers.

The weight of his lips against hers is by no means foreign to her; but they are in public and at least two people are watching them. Hitoka doesn’t have a good track record with attention, especially with kissing in public.

Granted, Hinata never initiates kisses in public back home. They usually hold hands, at most give pecks on the cheek when they’re exchanging goodbyes in public spaces.

The kiss turns harder, as though Hinata senses her distress and is trying to distract her. She lets out a squeak that is soon stifled when he forces her lips to part further. The prickling discomfort of being observed abates as she tastes citrus on her tongue. Tart and sweet… probably from the smoothie.

Just as she finds her bearings, Hinata withdraws. He doesn’t look winded at the least, though his smile blazes brilliantly—a magnitude brighter than before.

Beads of condensation from the glass land on her palm. Her insides loosen, cooling down slowly from the kiss.

She swallows a large mouthful of smoothie. Its flavour is several times more intense than the citrusy notes on her tongue moments ago.

“T-Thanks, Hinata.” It dawns on her that she herself isn’t sure what she’s thanking him for; the smoothie, the kiss, or both? Her face burns hotter.

She quickly glances at Gabriel and Gino, both of whom are studying them with friendly interest. They nudge Hinata playfully, but don’t show negative reactions otherwise, much to her relief.

“Um… they approached me first, but I didn’t understand what they were saying.”

Hinata says something to Gabriel and Gino in Portuguese. When they turn back to her, they speak in English, sounding a little apologetic. Her wrung out nerves relax slightly; at least she understands them now.

* * *

Hinata spouting out rapid-fire Portuguese is something that Hitoka can’t get enough of.

He opens his mouth and a stream of indecipherable words fall out. His tone and attitude changes in subtle ways, and he speaks louder. The complicated R’s and almost sassy undertone at the end of each sentence, strangely enough, complement him.

It’s Day 4 in Rio and she watches from a distance as he talks to the elderly woman before a fruit stall. They clearly know each other, based on the wide smiles and enthusiastic words bubbling over each other.

His conversational English is also leagues better than hers. The boy that she tutored once upon a time surpassed her completely.

The wonders of what Brazil can do to a boy who used to fail English. In a matter of days, he’s completely immersed in the culture once again. In Japan, she wouldn’t have seen this side of him at all. This part of Hinata comes alive here, seamlessly adapts to the people and environment like fish to water.

She hears her name.

Hinata gestures frantically at her. The old lady watches her with steely eyes.

Confused, Hitoka approaches them.

When Hinata extends a hand to her, she takes it on instinct. He holds their intertwined hands out, as though he’s showing them to the old lady.

The old lady raises her eyebrows incredulously, sharp grey eyes darting between them both.

Hitoka has the odd feeling that the lady is sizing her up, as though she is one fruit among the vibrant tropical selections in her stall.

A 178-gram mango sits on the scale. Probably Hinata’s pick.

Whatever Portuguese she spits out next causes the man beside her to deflate.

“What, what is it?” she asks worriedly. Is he trying and failing to bargain? For a single mango fruit?

Hinata shakes his head. “Nothing. She doesn’t believe that you’re my girlfriend, that’s all.”

The old lady squints at Hitoka before making another comment. This time, Hinata’s fingers tense in her grip. He moves forward, a subtle motion that shields Hitoka behind him.

Her worry intensifies at the agitation in his body language.

Hinata says something back, words somewhat harsh-sounding, but not to the point of being disrespectful. She considers the times he argued with Yamaguchi in third year; the strained but solemn tone is the same.

Even though Hitoka has an inkling that they’re discussing her, she can’t say anything to diffuse the atmosphere. This is unlike the arguments she witnessed during high school; she can handle volleyball scuffles, disagreements about team formation, how many meat buns they should have after practice.

But Hitoka has never (inadvertently) _caused_ an argument before. Confronted with a language she can’t understand, with a Hinata that radiates borderline fury, she can’t do much.

So she chooses the path with least conflict. She tugs on his arm.

“Shouyo,” it’s the fastest way to get his attention. _Bingo_ , she thinks when his arm relaxes a fraction, tamping down the fluttery sensation of his first name on her tongue. “let’s go.”

The rest of Hinata is still ramrod stiff; she’s half-afraid that he won’t let the argument go.

A few seconds elapse. He sighs, and allows Hitoka to lead him away.

* * *

After a couple of hours, some of which Hinata uses to play volleyball and unwind, he finally tells her what happened.

He struggles to translate the words directly, though.

“She says you’re too… thin. Your hips and chest aren’t—” Hinata splutters, blushing fiercely. “Ack! Well, she basically said that I could…” he inhales deeply. “God, just thinking about it makes me mad. She said I could do better than you.”

Hitoka isn’t sure what to think. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that she couldn’t understand Portuguese. With how Hinata is huffing and puffing up again, he was obviously more affected by the lady’s words.

“What did you say to that?” She asks.

Hinata crosses his arms, face visibly darkening as he recalls the encounter.

“I said that you make me happy and that’s all I need in life.”

And that’s all Hitoka needs for the sunlight to pierce through the clouds.

Her insecurities evaporate, leaving behind a glowing affection. It’s a fearless emotion, one that blurs out the incessant Portuguese chatter, loud music, and screaming children, allowing her to focus on Hinata alone.

It guides her movements. In the second before her lips meet his, she wonders if this is how Hinata feels before he kisses her. Unclouded freedom. The heat must play a part in the spontaneous gesture too.

The experience is made better when he freezes—just like she does usually—and swiftly recovers with renewed enthusiasm.

## Shouyo

* * *

**(Gentle)**

There is a fundamental difference between Japanese and Brazilian beaches.

Shouyo can't gauge the exact difference, but he feels it all the same. If he continued playing in Japan beaches, perhaps he might have acclimated. But for now, the hot sand and humid winds give him the last inch to fly higher.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Yachi watching. It's a surreal feeling, knowing that she came to Brazil with him. Her figure on the sidelines takes him back to those sweaty afternoons during high school, where she watches over their practice matches, notebook in hand.

The wind switches directions and the ball slips beyond his reach. He twists around in an instant, and kicks his left foot out to keep it in the air.

This part of beach volleyball is something that can't be replaced in indoor volleyball. Minute changes in atmospheric conditions can be the deciding factor from one point to the next. When there's two people on each side, you're each taking 50% of the work. The stakes are high, and the results are unpredictable.

He glances at Yachi again, and her endearingly pinched expression melts his heart. She resembles a focused Pomeranian, a keen mind hidden beneath her naive exterior. Ever since she agreed to become the manager, Shouyo has learned not to underestimate Yachi's resolve.

Her decision to accompany him to Brazil had shook him to the core. He couldn't have envisioned her in a city like Rio, with its clamor and colors. Yachi is soft elegance and pastel palettes, a girl who blends into the quiet. Hinata remembers the Nokia motto from years ago: _quietly brilliant_. There are no better words that describe Yachi Hitoka so succinctly.

Ah, it’s his turn to serve. Shouyo shakes those thoughts out.

The game ends with his team’s loss. Shouyo isn’t surprised nor disappointed, knowing that it has been a while since he’d played beach volleyball. It takes time to relearn his reflexes, to unlearn the fear of falling and breaking something in his body.

When he falls face first into the sand, he hears Yachi crying out sharply. She doesn’t relax until he reaches out, tugs her against him, and forcefully plops both of them onto the sand. The barely perceptible impact is what jolts her out of the impromptu stress cycle.

“The sand is soft and forgiving, see?” He reminds her patiently.

 _Like you_ , Shouyo thinks but doesn’t say. But Yachi also has a heart of gold. Stubborn when she wants to be.

And he loves all of her.

* * *

**(Cachaca)**

Later in the evening, they visit Heitor and Nice. The couple had invited them over for dinner, with Nice expressing her excitement to meet _Shouyo’s girlfriend_.

Yachi in turn is also excited, albeit less chattery about it. She’s adapted well enough to South American cuisine so Shouyo isn’t concerned with the food aspect.

He wonders how both sides will react to each other. Unlike him, Yachi is quiet and soft spoken, prone to self-doubt. Two separate but important parts of his life are about to collide, and Shouyo can’t help but feel nervous.

Plus, there’s the language barrier. Yachi is good in English, but Heitor and Nice are more comfortable talking in Portuguese. He might have to double as a translator for everyone.

And he will do it. He would do anything to ensure everyone is comfortable.

When Yachi is done dressing up, she comes out of the bedroom with a square box wrapped in sakura flower patterned paper.

“What’s that?” Shouyo asks curiously.

Yachi’s smile wobbles. “A… a gift for Heitor and Nice. It’s got Japanese sweets and other snacks inside.”

She bites her lip, the picture of uncertainty. “Do you think they’ll like it?”

A warm feeling washes over him, alleviating most of his (unnecessary) concern over the dinner party. Only Yachi could be this considerate and thoughtful.

“Of course they will! And they’ll love you too!” He says with confidence, and he genuinely means it.

They accepted him, so of course they will accept Yachi too.

* * *

Nice and Heitor tone down their energy levels for that night. It seems that as soon as they laid eyes on Yachi, who flinched upon Heitor’s booming greeting when he answered the door, they both instinctively knew to speak quieter. Their smiles, though initially cordial, soon widened as the night progressed.

Yachi has that effect on people, Shouyo thinks fondly. He watches as she shyly holds out the gift. Nice, prone to emotional outbursts because of her pregnancy, accepts the gift, passes it to Heitor, and hugs Yachi tightly. Well, the tightest she can with a distended belly in the way.

“You are so sweet, Yachi!” Nice effuses enthusiastically after letting go. She laughs when Yachi turns bright red. “Just like Shouyo! You both are clearly meant for each other.”

“I’m very lucky.” Shouyo and Yachi say simultaneously. His heart stops and restarts at a faster pace, and he glances at her; only to see her staring back in surprised pleasure, the shade of her blush deepening into maroon.

Heitor chuckles. “So when’s the wedding?”

Just like that, the poignant atmosphere is ruined by Heitor’s inquiry.

An image of Yachi in a white dress steals his breath away; Shouyo stares down at the green carpet. He feels abnormally warm. He also knows, without needing visual proof, that Yachi’s reaction is tenfold of his.

Shouyo can admit to himself that marriage doesn’t cross his mind frequently. He’s content with their dynamic now. Other girls don’t appeal to him, not that he bothers looking elsewhere. And why should he, when there is an amazing, intelligent, wonderful, patient, understanding, and beautiful woman beside him, one who gets him as much as he gets her?

Yachi is the one for him. But does that automatically translate to marriage? Does Yachi want that? That’s the most important question.

Shouyo doesn’t care about their relationship label. Exchanging rings and doing paperwork are just formalities. These formalities don’t capture all shared moments in time. He’s happy as they are.

If Yachi wants to amend that, he’s also fine with it.

In the midst of his reverie, Heitor cowers away from his wife.

“How could you be so rude? Apologize to both of them now!” She hisses in angry Portuguese.

Heitor bows at 90 degrees in Japanese fashion. “Sorry! You don’t have to answer that. Let’s not end things on an awkward note.”

“You were the one who made it awkward.”

“I said sorry…”

Nice rolls her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it!” Yachi waves her hands. Her face retains some redness. “Um, do you mind if I used your bathroom?” She asks meekly.

Nice nods and indicates to the hallway. “Last door on your right.”

“Thank you.” And Yachi makes her exit.

A beat of silence.

Shouyo lets out a short laugh at Heitor’s constipated expression.

“It’s really fine, Nice. Please go easy on Heitor. We still have a match together the day after tomorrow.” He says at his own expense.

Nice huffs, though her irritation fades away. She waddles to one of the rooms, saying something about retrieving a gift for Yachi.

“Thanks for that, man.” Heitor mimics wiping away sweat at his brow in relief. “Do you fancy a drink? It’s been awhile since you’ve had a decent cachaca huh?”

The taller man reaches to the counter and grabs an unopened bottle.

Shouyo doesn’t remember the last time he had cachaca. Most of his time in Brazil was spent conditioning himself physically and mentally; drinking has no place in his rigorous regime.

But now, he’s on vacation with Yachi. His tolerance for alcohol isn’t the best, but he can definitely take a few gulps of cachaca no problem.

At least, those are the famous last words.

He forgets to account for the extended length of time since he last drank, and cachaca is more potent than Japanese alcohol. Heitor has a ridiculously high alcohol tolerance and normally hangs around other heavy drinkers, so he is unfamiliar with the concept of lightweights and Asian flush.

One glass becomes two. Then three. So on and so forth.

Shouyo stops keeping track of his drinking once his entire body heats up. Fire builds up in his cheeks, and he feels very sleepy.

In the back of his mind, he remembers the one time Yachi (accidentally) took a shot, which causes him to laugh aloud.

Heitor grins regardless, raising his glass in the air in a silent toast.

Shouyo can’t support his head anymore; it’s heavy. The strength in his arms had been sapped away by the alcohol. Instead, he braces his forehead against the counter, breathing long and deep to stall the lightheadedness. His consciousness fights hard against the inebriation.

Then he wonders why Yachi is taking so long in the bathroom—

“Hinata? Are you okay?”

A soft voice, speaking in his native tongue. His heart perks in recognition. With great effort, he hefts his head up and meets Yachi’s wide-eyed gaze.

Heitor chuckles. “He’s just enjoying the effects of my aged cachaca,” the taller man explains in English for her benefit. “But I think he’s had enough?”

“Oh.”

The alarm in her eyes eases, replaced by intrigue. She leans forward, and Shouyo is not quite drunk enough to lose his sense of smell because the smell of lavender immediately surrounds him. She remains there, scant inches away from his own face, studying him.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you really drunk,” she says quietly. Her voice has a soothing effect, lulling him closer to dreamland. Shouyo struggles to keep his eyes open, unwilling to relinquish this moment. “You’re so red.”

Of course, because he’s drunk. But this is the first time he sees Yachi behave like this, voluntarily coming close and smelling like flowers and staring straight into his soul…

He keels forwards. Yachi yelps, arms wrapping around his waist to support him. Heitor is the one who pulls him upright, shaking his head in amusement.

“Maybe it’s about time you guys head back. Shouyo looks like he’s about to fall asleep soon. I’ll drive you guys home; let me go tell Nice first.”

Yachi says something, probably thanking him. Heitor then flashes another smile and ambles out of the living room.

Shouyo loses the battle and lets his eyes shut. Only for a little while, just until Nice comes out.

Cool fingers sweep across his forehead. “I hope you won’t suffer too much tomorrow morning.”

Shouyo grabs on the hand, pressing it firmly against his burning skin. She sounds almost teasing. “You… sound like you want me to suffer.” He says, though his tone comes out whiny and petulant.

The cachaca is messing with his head and speech, so from then on Shouyo swears himself off alcohol for as long as he lives. He’s reduced to a litany of Japanese-Portuguese gibberish and his brain protests against staying awake for much longer.

His eyes are closed but he can _hear_ the smile in her response. “Of course not, Hinata. What gave you that idea?”

Indignation flares up within him. He can’t let Yachi have the last word. He’s already humiliated enough in this state, and she’ll hold this over him forever like Kageyama who constantly dangles match victories over his head every time they see each other.

(No, Yachi wouldn’t do that. But the cachaca convinces him that she will.)

In good timing, Nice and her five-month-old pregnant belly waddle into the living room. Heitor follows suit with a sheepish expression. Although Nice is more than a head shorter than Heitor, she has no qualms elbowing her husband in the ribs upon seeing Shouyo’s drunken state.

“What are you thinking, Heitor! You know Shouyo can’t drink! He’s a pro athlete!” She barks at him.

Heitor winces, mumbling “I’m a pro and I drink…” under his breath. At Nice’s glare, he wilts.

Shouyo thanks fate for having Yachi instead of a fearsome Brazilian woman as his girlfriend.

Nice turns to them and her features rearrange to the open friendliness that Shouyo normally sees. “I will drive you two home.” She announces in accented English.

Yachi reacts first. “Oh, but you’re—” she gestures vaguely towards Nice’s abdomen awkwardly before she flushes red, quickly setting her hands down. “It’s fine if we walk home. We don’t want to cause trouble for you.”

“Hm, what does Shouyo usually say? Dai-jou-ba? Dai-jou-fu?”

Heitor whispers something into her ear and Nice’s eyes light up.

“Ah! Daijoubu! Yes, it’s daijoubu for me to drive you home. Heitor drank so he shouldn’t drive. The streets aren’t safe at this hour, especially when Shouyo is like that,” she tilts her head towards him. Shouyo doesn’t even bother dignifying that with a response; he knows she’s right and unlike Heitor, he’s not willing to test Nice’s patience. “He’s no ninja now so he can’t protect you. I insist.”

Her final emphasis successfully dampens Yachi’s efforts to refuse the gesture.

Shouyo makes to stand, only to stagger back unsteadily into the couch. Once again, Yachi catches his arm in time.

 _Yachi is so reliable today_ , he thinks. _No, scratch that. Yachi is always reliable_.

Yachi averts her eyes, colour rising in her cheeks. Shouyo realizes that he said that aloud.

Nice tuts and casts Heitor another incinerating glare before beckoning them both to the back door.

* * *

Yachi wins the argument against Nice, managing to convince her that she can handle Shouyo by herself. Nice makes the young woman promise that she’ll put him to bed properly.

Shouyo struggles in Yachi’s grip on his arm, because he _doesn’t_ care for the last comment. He is not a child, he can wash up and go to bed himself. Yachi is completely channeling manager energy now, almost like the time he fell sick in the match against Kamomedai. Back then he was able to stand on his own while sick. Why can’t he stand on his own now?

“Shouyo, the sooner you cooperate the sooner you can sleep the cachaca off. Stop making things difficult for Hitoka.”

Nice’s bluntness shuts him up, but something else in her sentence catches his attention. _Hitoka_. Why does Nice get to call Yachi by her first name right after their first meeting?

Although Yachi doesn’t understand rapid Portuguese, she bids Nice _tchau_ and ushers Shouyo to the door. He sways dangerously, but catches himself before he falls flat on the ground.

Asphalt is unforgivable, nothing like sand. He’s not drunk to the point that he’ll risk a permanent injury before even playing in the Brazilian league.

They pause at the foyer. Yachi looks at him, intent.

He looks back, clueless. Concern creases the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t seem frustrated or impatient with him.

Her gaze flits south to their feet.

“Do you need help taking off your shoes?”

No, he can take the shoes off himself.

Shouyo sits down on the steps, staring mutinously at the white laces of his runners for a while, unmoving.

Yachi giggles. She crouches before him, and the lavender scent invades his space once again, smothering his objections. Her fingers are careful and sure, applying light pressure around his feet to coax them out of his runners.

He wants her closer. There’s an inexplicable urge building in his stomach, a strong pull to drag her close and sink himself into lavenders and translucent flesh—

“Hinata.”

He chases these thoughts away, though the base impulses continue to simmer. He stands up by himself this time, and is pleasantly surprised that he only staggers an inch to the left.

Yachi stays behind, probably removing her own shoes with more finesse than he did (didn’t) earlier.

Shouyo speed walks to the bathroom with a one-track purpose. When he puts his mind to it, he can jump and run and move his limbs however he likes. If he can do all that, then he can walk to the bathroom on his own, damn it. Without Yachi’s help.

Luckily he took a shower before dinner. Navigating the cold and hot water settings on the shower knob suddenly seems like an impossible task. Changing clothes afterwards might take forever, and Shouyo tempers enough self-control to steer thoughts of Yachi helping him bathe far, far away. She is his girlfriend, not someone who’s obliged to put up with his drunk, lightweight idiocies.

Brushing his teeth takes half the usual time. He stumbles out of the bathroom and stops short of colliding with Yachi, who’s changed into a worn t-shirt and sleeping pants. How does she change so fast?

She quietly steps around him and the door slides shut with a click.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, two heartbeats too late.

“No worries.” She says behind the door.

* * *

Shouyo curls into a ball on the bed.

The blanket is on the ground. He’d kicked it off the bed by accident, and now the thought of retrieving it—to shift his body onto the other side of the king bed, stretch his arm out, grab the blanket, and hoist it up—is exhausting.

 _Brazil isn’t supposed to be cold_ , he thinks in frustration.

Well, he isn’t supposed to be drunk tonight, either. Anything can happen.

As if to prove the point, a breeze blows past the thin curtains and caresses his exposed calves and forearms. His senses are dulled and his body responds too slowly to external stimuli. At this rate, he won’t warm up for another few hours.

The blanket is far. The window is farther. Shouyo has no desire to get up and risk feeling lightheaded again. He might knock or break something and stress Yachi out more than he already does currently. The only option is to bite his lip and tolerate everything: the cold, fatigue, and lightheadedness. Even though he brushed his teeth, the aftertaste of the cachaca lingers in his mouth. Bittersweet.

Amidst the buzzing thoughts that keep him semi-awake, a warm weight is placed over his body.

Shouyo’s eyes fly open half-mast. The lavender scent is muted but still present. Yachi’s silhouette in the dim lighting shifts as she reaches over and around him to adjust the blanket. Each feather-light touch sears through the layers.

Oh wait, she needs to stay warm too. He can’t hog the blanket alone.

The remaining dregs of liquid courage and a brief spurt of energy are what push him to take her arm. He pulls—more of a suggestion than a demand—and Yachi falls forward with a surprised squeak. She ends up slumped against his front, face squished into the hollow of his throat.

A faint awareness shimmers in the silence, but he’s too spent to read the atmosphere.

Either she couldn’t resist his strength, or she knew what was happening and just went along with it. The physical cue he looks for is tension; if she goes stiff under his hands, Shouyo will let her go immediately.

He waits for some time; when she doesn’t pull away, he pulls the blanket over them both.

Yachi’s breaths, rhythmic ins and outs, tickle his neck. He sleepily rests a hand above her hip—and Yachi does have hips, the old lady just failed to notice them—and tugs her a smidgen closer. Close enough for their legs to tangle loosely.

He nuzzles into her hair. “Goodnight, Hitoka.”

Then he nods off, trailing after lavenders into dreamland.

* * *

**(Inner Peace)**

On Day 12, Shouyo wakes up at 6am sharp.

Pre-Rio, no such alarm existed. He would wake up an hour later and reach school just in time for morning practice.

Post-Rio, he would set the 6am alarm. He'd wake up a few minutes past, blinking the sleep fog away from his eyes. Then he would wash up, change into running clothes, and jog to the nearby park. Other than the elderly, there aren’t many people about. Shouyo would find a bench and meditate. In the first few months after returning from Rio, it took him some time to adjust his thoughts without ocean waves thrumming in the background.

Today, the pale lilac sky is the first thing he sees when his eyes open five minutes before 6am. He didn’t even set an alarm.

After accepting that he won’t fall back to sleep anytime soon, Shouyo sits up twenty minutes later.

Yachi’s form rustles beside him as she shifts in her sleep. She peels the blanket, now loose around Shouyo’s waist, away from him and into herself.

They’ve come a long way since that day on the beach three years ago. Yachi graduated and started working full-time in Tokyo two years back. He knows that her decision to move to Tokyo, away from her mother’s shadow, has brought her more happiness and relief than ever before.

Sometimes, she talks about how her superiors are more laid-back in comparison to Yachi Madoka during her internship.

Shouyo isn’t surprised. After all, Madoka is the one who molded Yachi into a strong and durable woman.

He wishes that Yachi could see that for herself. In her most vulnerable state now, silky blond hair fanned out around her pillow, legs pulled partway to her chest, and the blanket haphazardly dragged around her shoulders and covering nothing below her hips—he sees a woman who always keeps her promises. A reliable person that gives more than she takes. A woman who, despite her own misgivings, can handle anything the world flings at her.

Well, she did agree to be his girlfriend, didn’t she?

He thinks back to his careless announcement to the club members about his decision to pursue beach volleyball in Brazil. The only ones who reacted positively were Yamaguchi and her.

Tsukishima perceived the news with a lukewarm response, telling him in clear terms that monster idiots can go anywhere and he shouldn’t be surprised.

Kageyama was… Kageyama. If Tsukishima was lukewarm, the setter was insufferably cool and deadpan, Shouyo’s explanations falling on deaf ears. Instead, Kageyama fixated on the knowledge that they would stand on the opposite sides of the court, next time.

A few days later, Kageyama broke news about joining a Division 1 team. He was already miles ahead, the volleyball world practically awaiting his arrival.

Meetings, team practices, matches, and meat bun runs came and went. In the process of transitioning to beach volleyball training, he temporarily lost sight of Yachi. She never once missed a single club-related activity, but her existence grew faint in his awareness.

Outside of the semi-regular tutoring sessions, he didn’t have many opportunities to focus on things beyond the additional training, correspondence with the Brazilian coach, and miscellaneous grown-up responsibilities.

(Shouyo deeply regrets that.)

In a blink of an eye, the departure date came. Yamaguchi, Tsukishima, and Yachi were present at the bus station. Kageyama had to attend a remote training camp—no surprise there. But his absence was a reminder that their paths will cross again, no matter how long it took for Shouyo to master the beach.

The proverbial meteorite slammed straight into his dense mind when he saw Yachi’s expression.

She smiled all the way from the cafe, during the short walk to the station, even giggling when Natsu showed up and began quizzing him.

His suitcases were loaded into the trunk. The clock was minutes away from departure time.

He looked at the three people who stood by his side for the past three years; both on and off the court.

Yachi’s eyes were rimmed red, tears trailing down her cheeks. But her crying was silent; if he hadn’t looked at her then, he might not have noticed.

His body reacted on instinct, out of a lifetime’s experience dealing with Natsu’s crying fits. He hugged her so tightly that he felt the wetness from her face seeping through his jacket. That only intensified his urge to hug her tighter until they both couldn’t breathe.

Tsukishima’s bluntness cut into the moment. His dry voice echoed the overhead PA’s reminder that _all passengers to Narita Airport, please head to Bay 12, the bus will be leaving in two minutes_.

Yachi was the one who pushed away first. She took a deep breath and swiped the tears off with her fingertips. Her solemn expression was at odds with the remnants of crying.

Shouyo moved too; if he didn’t, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t ever leave. He nodded to her wordlessly, turning and walking towards the bus. Each step away from his friends and family was a weight around his ankles, the resistance becoming heavier and heavier.

“Hinata!” Yachi’s voice rang through the blankness of his mind, and drags his eyes towards her.

She smiled. “Do your best!”

Someone behind him poked his shoulder. He snapped into reality, eyes on Yachi, who stood tall and straight, her eyes shining with hope and admiration.

“You too, Yachi-san!”—was the best he could come up with.

He carried her words to heart. Over the stretching days and months in a foreign city that gradually became home, the three simple words forced him to remember not just why he chose this outlandish, roundabout route to improve himself.

He also discovered the emotions that sprouted overtime, right underneath his nose.

Maybe it’s the world’s way of punishing him. The realization came too late, and Yachi was already beyond his reach.

Her mannerisms and behaviour around him over the years suddenly seemed so obvious, so telling and honest. She went from the faithful club manager who cheered each time he scored a point, to the only girl he’s ever invited to his house for dinner.

(As expected, Natsu became fond of her within the first hour of meeting her.)

Only an idiot—Tsukishima’s voice jeers at him—would miss the signs.

This idiot woke up in a cold sweat, a thunderous emotion settling comfortably amidst his vibrating heart strings.

Shouyo acknowledged the feelings, and accepted them after days of meditation. Acceptance brought him more peace than denial.

He was aware that while he sweated buckets under the scorching sun, ran across wet-dry-hot-cool sand barefoot, Yachi was asleep in a different timezone. But they shared the same sky.

The sand was forgiving. The wind was (mostly) his friend. The waves ebbed and flowed, glittering blue diamonds that beckoned him to jump in after a gruelling competition.

Japan had none of those. But Japan had Yachi and Kageyama and many others that helped him grow.

Shouyo wasn’t one to dwell on what-ifs. He went through the daily training, promising himself that he wouldn’t let Yachi slip out of his fingers when he returned two years later.

And here she is today, sleeping soundly beside him.

Shouyo leans over, pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek. He lingers, lips warming from the heat of her skin. Then he swings around and carefully gets out of bed.

The ocean waves are calling him.

* * *

**(Fin)**

“Brazil is beautiful, Hinata. I can understand why you enjoy it so much.”

Hinata beams proudly. “Isn’t it?”

“Mm. You fit in here.” Like sand to the ocean. Orange to black. Wings to the sky.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

Hinata hesitates, his demeanour almost shy. “Did you… enjoy the trip?”

She doesn’t need to think to answer that question. “Of course I did!”

He exhales in relief. “Good. At least now that you’ve seen the place, you’ll worry less over me. Hopefully.”

Hitoka shrugs. Just because she can now visualize the areas frequented by Hinata, doesn’t mean that she won’t worry anymore. Hinata is too optimistic. But she knows that his friendships here are on par with friends back home. They will watch over him.

Hinata reaches out a finger and slides it down her cheek.

“I’ll visit Japan as often as I can.”

“It’s okay if you can’t. I won’t mind.” Promises are a double-edged sword. If he runs himself ragged flying back and forth between Tokyo and Rio, she won’t be able to live with herself.

Hitoka takes the wandering finger. She spreads her smaller fingers over his, paleness set against tan skin. “I’ll visit too.”

Because in the future, she really wouldn’t mind exploring the rest of Rio.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: that first hinayachi took a lot outta me. I'm gonna give hinayachi a rest. I am satisfied.  
> My brain: *keeps me up at night with a bunch of Hinayachi headcanons*  
> Me: why  
> My brain: you gOTTa
> 
> I’m aware that the farewell scene before hinayachi is different in this story, but that’s purely because I’m adhering to the light novel events. I might go back to the previous story and revise the scene.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this madness. Surprisingly, I had more fun writing this than the Staring at the Sun, but maybe I'm just more familiar with the hinayachi dynamic this time round. 
> 
> Comments are well appreciated. Thank you for reading!


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